Birthday Traditions
by chibiness87
Summary: It's sitting next to his microscope again. Another small envelope with his name inscribed on the front in her familiar scrawl, and he opens it with a flourish, almost eager to see what she has gotten him this year.


**Birthday traditions,** by **chibiness87  
Rating- T. **Language/mention of drug use.  
 **Spoilers-** general knowledge **  
Disclaimer-** not mine. No infringement intended.

 **A/N:** This started life as a single scene, then became 3+1, then became a 5+1, then, well, became this. Not beta'd. All mistakes are my own.

* * *

1\. January 6th.

It's sitting next to his microscope. Well, _his_ in as much as it is the one he likes to use because he can see both doors to the lab and the office, and is thus less likely to be snuck upon. He had stepped outside to get an actual cup of coffee from a small cafe down the street, not the swill the NHS provides, and when he had returned there was a small envelope next to his 'scope. It's not big, and has no name on it, but given the way it was laid to rest _just so_ against the stage of the microscope lets him know he is indeed the intended recipient.

He glances around, but the only other person in the lab is the new specialist registrar, one whom he's only worked with a handful of times, but who seems competent enough to not be a complete idiot. He flicks open the envelope quickly, noticing out of the corner of his eye the registrar has stopped what she is doing, and is glancing at him.

Inside, there is a card, and he places the envelope down, reaching for his coffee instead. Using his thumb, he flicks the card open, and is met with the sight of a gift voucher for the very shop he favours to get his coffee from, and he stops. Blinks. Pauses there, with one hand on his coffee, and the other hand on his… gift.

Looking up, he meets the shy gaze of the pathologist he has barely taken the time to talk to before, never mind deduce. "Why…?"

She doesn't ask how he knows it's from her; another point in her favour. Instead, she just gives him a small, quick smile. "Happy birthday."

And then she leaves, her station cleared up, and he is left with the first birthday present he has received in years, a strange feeling in his chest.

He opens the card once more, reading the inscription. It's simple. To the point. _To Sherlock. Happy Birthday. Molly Hooper._

He vows to remember her name from then on.

* * *

2\. January 6th.

There is an envelope again, his name written on the outside this time in handwriting he knows to belong to Molly. He didn't know what to expect, didn't know if this was going to be a thing between them or not, but apparently so. He's still not quite sure how she's worked out today is his birthday either; it's not exactly something he goes around talking about. He has an inkling it might have been Stamford, but given he's one the reasons he has a safe place to, quote, _try not to blow some shit up_ , he's not about to annoy him, least his access rights get revoked.

And people say he has no tact.

Pfft.

Molly is nowhere to be seen, and part of him feels unsure about opening the envelope when she is not there. She did, after all, take the time to buy him something, even if it is just a monetary value for something he would be buying anyway. Just as he's decided not to open it, picking it up to put in his pocket for later, when he can open it in front of Molly, the woman herself enters the lab.

"D'you like it?" And she nods to the envelope. "I wasn't sure…"

Permission granted, he opens the envelope, making sure she can hear the flap tearing so she knows he isn't being rude by not answering immediately. Inside, there is a print out of an online store receipt, complete with a small image of the item purchased. It takes him a second to read over the details, but then he looks at her. Grins.

"A magnifying glass?"

Molly nods, biting her lip shyly. "Yeah. I've only reserved it. If you don't want it I can get you something else. Something better. Some cigars or something like that for your tobacco ash experiment… thing."

"You know about my ash experiment?"

Molly blushes slightly. "I, uh, I found your blog."

He blinks at her. "And you read it?"

She frowns at him. "Was I not supposed to?"

"No one reads my blog." He shakes his head slightly. Looks down, to be reminded of the gift he has in his hand. Glancing back at her, he says, "The magnifying glass is fine, Molly. Thank you."

Molly nods. "Ok. I'll get it posted out to you. You want it delivered here or your place?"

"Here. I think here would be better. My place is a bit…" he trails off waving his hand in the air.

"Biohazardous?" And Molly smiles at him, a teasing glint in her eye.

He rolls his eyes at her in response. "Funny." He turns to leave, only stopping when she calls his name again. Turning back, he raises his eyebrow in question.

"Happy birthday."

He nods, and leaves, a small smile on his face.

Idly, he wonders if this is what friendship feels like.

* * *

3\. January 6th.

It's sitting next to his microscope again. Another small envelope with his name inscribed on the front in her familiar scrawl, and this time accompanied with a small 'x'. Trying to ignore the thump in his chest at the small sign of sentiment, he opens it with a flourish, almost eager to see what she has gotten him this year. Inside, instead of a card with another gift voucher or print out of an online order, there is instead a pile of papers, and he frowns. Taking them out, he reads the first one, and his eyes widen. He reads a second, and then a third, a smile beginning to form. There are ten in all, and by the end he is so giddy he actually lets out a chuff of laughter.

"You like them?"

"They're," he stops, looks over to her, grin still on his face and in his voice, "they're _brilliant_ , Molly. Thank you."

She smiles, a shy thing but it reaches her eyes. "Happy birthday."

He reads over the papers again, before picking one out, hurrying over to her. "Can I cash this one in now?" And he holds out the piece of paper, almost bouncing on his toes in excitement. _To be given in exchange for one (1) human liver._

Molly smiles, lets out a small laugh. "It's your birthday, Sherlock. You can have this one for free." And she hands the voucher back to him, before going to the fridge and finding a liver for him.

He takes it eagerly, hurrying to clear a space on the bench to set up a series of conical flasks. Molly watches on, her brow furrowed slightly in confusion. "What are you planning on doing to it?"

"Was thinking about the effects different acids have on tissue breakdown." He sends her a look out the corner of his eye, a smile playing at the edge of his mouth. "Want to help?"

She grins at him, and together they spend the rest of his birthday immersed in science.

It is, hands down, the best birthday he's ever had.

* * *

4\. January 6th.

He doesn't expect anything this year.

Truly, after the way he acted a few weeks ago, he doubts he'll get anything from her, ever again. Being a bit of a dick in front of their friends has that sort of effect, apparently. That he even has friends, in the plural sense of the word, is still so new to him, that he still finds the odd occasion where he is left floundering, and so lashes out at those closest to him.

Molly takes the brunt of it, even before Christmas comes around, leaving him feeling vaguely guilty and then annoyed at himself for feeling that way, often leading to him leaving the lab before the real reason of his visit has been addressed. So much so he still has a couple of his human body tissue vouchers left; the last one he had asked for being the corpse he used for posthumous bruising, nearing on 6 months previous.

So when he enters the lab, quietly with none of the flair he normally shows, and there is an envelope at his station, his heart jumps slightly. His name is written in her familiar hand, but unlike Christmas there is a distinct lack of any form of sentiment. Just his name.

The sight does something he does not want to think about, so instead he flicks open the flap.

There is a card this year, fairly simple and nondescript, and he draws a deep breath before opening it.

Inside, there are just four words, but they loosen something in his chest and stomach, and for the first time in two weeks he feels like he can breathe again.

 _I forgive you.  
Molly._

The squeak of the door and the soft tread of her shoe alerts him to her presence, and he speaks without turning around. "Thank you."

She pauses in her approach; by his estimation she is only half way to him. Voice soft, she whispers, "You hurt me. You know that, right?"

He nods, shame filling him. "I know."

Molly sighs softly. Coming up beside him, she stands in front of him, and makes him meet her gaze. "Don't do it again."

Humbly, he shakes his head. "I shall endeavour not to, Molly Hooper."

She smiles, soft and brittle, but there. "Good." She takes a breath, and nods. Softly, she says, "Happy birthday."

And before he can say anything else, she leaves.

* * *

5\. January 6th.

He doesn't get a present this year. Doesn't even get a card propped up against his microscope. In fact, there is no microscope. Instead, he gets a punch to the stomach and a blade against his ribs, but he wins the fight in the end.

Brushing past people on the street, playing the helpless drunk like a pro, he slips into the shadows of the night.

Taking down Moriarty's web will just have to do.

* * *

6\. January 6th.

Everything has changed this year. John is engaged to a woman with a past he's slightly curious about (because what nurse practitioner knows skip codes?), and Molly is engaged to a man who looks like him and dresses like him and yet is so, so not him it makes him want to point out his failings every time he sees her.

Loudly.

In detail.

Except.

Except, before he went away he promised her he wouldn't hurt her again, and she seems happy, so he bites his tongue and his harsh words back.

Instead, he throws himself into cases, and planning John and Mary's wedding, and learns what it is to be Sherlock Holmes in a world without James Moriarty there to fuck everything up.

He so intense in all of this that December passes by with nary a glance up, and then before he knows it January arrives.

The envelope is propped against his microscope, and this sudden splash of normality in this new world of strangeness hits him like a blow to the solar plexus.

His name is on the front like it has been every year after that first time, and there is even a small 'x' there again, even if he can see the slight hesitation marks before she had decided to add it. Not wanting to dwell on the meaning of that, he pulls the flap free, taking the card out slowly.

Inside, there is a printed out photograph, and he takes his time to study it. He looks younger, is his first thought. His cheekbones are less pronounced, and there is an element of boyishness in his eyes, even as he glares at the camera, frown marring his face. Whenever this was taken, he obviously wasn't happy about it.

But after his initial reaction of seeing his own face, it is the background of the photograph that grabs his attention. Because, in the corner of the frame, looking at the group of guys Sherlock has been enforced into joining (he figures it must have been a Christmas outing from the Yard, (and yes, looking closer he sees a date stamp for the 10th December)) is _Molly._

He'd recognise that cardigan anywhere; not least because she wears it all the time in his mind palace.

He flicks the photo over, and finds her scrawl on the back. _1_ _st_ _meeting_.

And then, underneath, _This is how I knew. They sang happy birthday to you that night too, even while you kept pointing out it wasn't for another 3 weeks and 6 days. Happy birthday. X_

This time, there is no hesitation mark before the 'x', and it makes him pause. Makes him wonder.

Makes him dare to hope.

* * *

7\. January 6th.

The envelope is sitting, like it always does, next to the microscope in the lab. Sherlock pauses in the doorway, taking in the room, before slowly making his way over to it. His name is on the front, but this time the 'x' is missing. Not that he expected there to be one. Not after the year they've had, and the events from the past few weeks. In fact, he's quite surprised to see an envelope there at all.

He opens it slowly, hands shaking, and he puts it down to the drug withdrawal he's still suffering from. Nearly dying is never pleasant, and this comedown is one of the worst he has ever experienced. His veins are still itching, his mind desperate for the relief the cocktail brought, even fleetingly. John and Mycroft had both demanded he go to rehab, but the threat from whoever posted the Moriarty video is still out there, and until he knows everyone is safe, he's not willing to risk disappearing for a few months.

The card inside is simple, and he opens it with trepidation. A sheet of paper falls out, and he reaches to catch it before it lands on the floor, cursing slightly when he misses. His hand eye coordination is still off because of the tremors in his hands. Bending down, he picks the sheet up, blinking owlishly when he realises it is in fact a prescription note.

The list of drugs on it makes him blink, makes his breath catch.

"Don't tell John."

Her voice from behind him startles him, and he turns suddenly, almost overbalancing into the bench. "Molly."

She nods to the prescriptions she has given him. "I… I mean…"

"What?"

"I found out what cocktail you decided to," she glances down, mumbling, "how was it put to me?" before looking back at him, fierce determination in her gaze, "oh yes, _go out on_."

Shame fills him, and he looks away. He hears her sigh, and then a hand appears on his arm. He looks up, and she nods to the script in his hand. Voice gentle once more, she tells him, "Those should help with the, uh, with the comedown."

It hits him suddenly, just how much he does not deserve the woman standing in front of him. "Molly, I…"

"Just… get better, ok?" And she gives him a small smile. The sight of it makes the crying itch of his veins quiet to a subtle hum for the first time in a week, and he makes a silent promise, to himself and to Molly, he will get through this.

Slowly, he nods, pleased to see her smile get a bit stronger, a bit brighter. "Thank you."

She turns, moving to the door of the lab, pausing once in the doorway to glance back at him. "Make sure you get those filled out."

He nods. "I will."

"Good. And Sherlock?" She pauses, waits for him to look at her. "Happy birthday."

* * *

8\. January 6th.

For the first time since making his acquaintance, John insists on celebrating Sherlock's birthday. And ok, that might have something to do with the good army doctor only just finding out today is actually the day of his birth, a fact that would have gone on being unknown but for an ill-timed text, but it still feels slightly… odd.

John, under the misguided concept no one knows, even calls Molly up so they can do the 'Sherlock handover' at a local cake place (apparently he gets cake this year), and arranges a time for them to meet.

It takes the better part of 10 minutes to get Rosie ready for their impromptu outing, and so by the time they get to the café they're running slightly late. Molly has managed to beat them there, and has at least had the foresight to grab a table, even going as far as exchanging one of the seats for a high chair for her goddaughter.

This child, upon seeing Molly, lets out a whoop, and starts squirming in John's arms, her intention clear. There are shadows under Molly's eyes, but they still light up at the sight of the small girl reaching for her, and the overall picture and the obvious missing piece in it hits Sherlock so suddenly he feels like he can't breathe.

Freezing, he ignores the worried cries from behind him as he turns and rushes back out through the door and onto the street beyond. A hand lands on his arm, and he turns sharply, despite his body's protest, to push the person who has dared to stop him away.

Only, it is not John, as he expected, but Molly. Slowly, she approaches him again, and this time he lets her. "What is it?"

"Sorry. Sorry, it's just, Mary, she would have…" He trails off, glances away.

"I know."

He gives her a weak, sardonic grin. "John forgave me, you know. For killing her."

Molly's eyes go hard. Cold. "John," she sighs angrily, "John beat you to a bloody pulp."

Sherlock shakes his head. "He…"

But Molly has never been one to stand down against him. "I saw the x-rays, Sherlock. The bruising. Christ, you're lucky he didn't puncture a kidney. Or a lung." She looks down for a moment, breathing heavily. When she looks up again, there is such pain in her eyes _for him_ that it takes his breath away. "Was Mary, was she really worth all of this?"

He nods. Just once, but sure and determined. "Of course it was." Softer now, he adds, "I had to save John."

"By killing yourself?"

Sherlock sighs. Looks down. "She, Mary…"

Molly places her hand on his arm again. Gently now, she says, "Mary's not here."

Pulling his arm free, he hisses back, "And whose fault is that?!"

Molly sighs. "The fault, Sherlock, lies with the person who fired that bullet. It wasn't you, and it wasn't Mary, and it wasn't John. And yes, it's awful, and we're all, all of us, we all hurt, and we all miss her, but Sherlock..." She lays her hand on his arm again. "Hey, look at me," and then waits until he does. She gives him a small smile, and says, "We are not to blame. Ok?"

Sherlock sighs, this time steeping closer, close enough he can rest his head on hers for a moment, drawling solace. Drawing strength. "I just," he sighs, "I miss her."

Molly nods against him, sliding her arms to rest gently around his chest. "I know. I know you do." They stand there for a long moment, before Molly pulls back. Tilting her head down the street towards his flat, she asks, "Do you want to go?"

But Sherlock steals a glance through the window of the café. John has Rosie settled, and is beginning the arduous task of feeding the child. Shaking his head, Sherlock gives a small sigh "No, we can stay." Leaning back to look at her, he makes his voice light. "Apparently I get cake this year." He manages to summon up a small smile, and she returns it.

Reaching down, she squeezes his hand in hers for a moment before releasing him. "Come on then." Together they make their way back to the café, retaking their seats.

John looks over to them, hand still poised in mid-air from where he was feeding Rosie. "Everything good?"

Molly smiles "Yeah. Fine."

Sherlock nods. "Did you order?"

John shakes his head, returning to feeding his daughter. "Wasn't sure what you'd want."

Sherlock nods. Tries to sum up the energy to move, his ribs beginning to protest from all the movement. Molly must see something in his face, because she shoots him a look, before digging into her bag. Before he can stand, she places a hand on his arm, stalling him. "I'll go, I know what you like." Handing him what she had dug out from her bag, she says, "You can open this. Happy birthday."

He turns the white envelope with his name on over, almost eagerly pulling the flap open. There is no card inside this year, just a folded piece of A4 paper. Opening it, he reads the title, and feels a smile spread across his face.

"What is it?"

He grins, folding the paper back up, tucking it neatly into its envelope. "Just some data for my blog."

John sighs, wiping up the mess Rosie has made, giving up the rest of the food in the jar as a lost cause. "No one reads your blog, mate."

But Sherlock's eyes are focused on the small woman, bent over the counter and pointing to some truly decadent looking cakes, a feeling unlike he has ever known before filling him. "Don't they?"

With a raised eyebrow, John reaches over, and pulls the paper free, spreading it out over the table between them. On top of the paper, in Molly's handwriting, is a small note. _Your blog needs updating_. The rest is a typed list, entitled, 'The construction and compounds of cigar tobacco; an ongoing study'. There are over 100 items on the list in total.

John leans back, a strange look on his face. "Wow."

"I know." And Sherlock beams. "Isn't it brilliant?"

But John is shaking his head. "You really are a completely blind idiot, aren't you?"

"What? Why?"

John sighs. "Never mind."

Molly picks that moment to return, and he grins at her. Quite without knowing why, he leans over and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. Trying to cover up the sudden panic he feels in his chest at the move, he says quietly, "Thank you."

Molly blushes, glances at Rosie for a moment, before raising her eyes once more. "You're welcome."

Before anything else can be said, the cake arrives, and they turn their attention to the sweet treat.

It's as they're packing up John asks the question Sherlock knows he's been dying to ask. "So, how long have you known?"

"What?"

John rolls his eyes. "That today is his birthday."

Molly smiles. "Since the beginning."

"And you get him something every year?"

"Of course I do."

"Well, if you want input next year, just let me know, yeah?"

Molly smiles. "Thanks. But I'm sure I'll be able to think of something."

Before he can ask anything else, Rosie lets out a burble of baby talk, and John is distracted enough for them to slip away.

* * *

9\. January 6th.

The envelope is sitting next to his microscope. Not the one in the lab, no, this one is on the kitchen table. It still has his name in her handwriting, but this year there are three 'x's next to it. Romantic attachment. Pausing in his task of making the tea, he reaches over, and flicks the flap open. She's gone with a card again this year, and he opens it.

A photograph falls out and he reaches over to pick it up, placing on the table without looking at it; his attention gained by the other piece of paper he's only just noticed. Unfolding it, he sees it's a test result. A blood test result. A blood test result that shows...

He reaches for the photograph, turns it over hurriedly.

And stops.

Stares.

Because, written in her handwriting over the top of the image of a pregnancy test box, are the words _Happy birthday, daddy._

He turns to see her loitering in the doorway, biting her lip. He motions to the photo and blood test result, barely able to breathe. "Molly," he gasps, "are you _serious?"_

Molly nods. "Yeah." Coming to stand beside him, she asks nervously, "Are you, I mean, is this ok?"

"Ok? This is," he looks at her, a smile stretching across his face, "Molly, this is fantastic." And he bends down, kisses her. Ardently.

The need to breathe eventually forces them apart, and Molly smiles at him. "Happy birthday."

He grins back, silently acknowledging that this is by far the best present he has ever received, before sweeping down and kissing her again.

* * *

End

Thoughts?


End file.
